


Wild Dances

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Creative!Faramir, Dancing, Established Relationship, Humor, Jealousy, Lapdance, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Smut, Tied-Up!Aragorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: They were all in the Great Hall - the Haradrim, the Gondorians… Even a few people from Rohan had come, bringing gifts and wishes for a peaceful future. The Haradrim had brought a few gifts of their own, too, and Faramir was far from pleased.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Wild Dances

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is so old I am ashamed I am posting it only now. I started to write it a year ago. A YEAR.  
> Anyway, thanks to MErmaidSheenaz for casting a kind eye over it and making sure I didn't screw up anywhere <3 
> 
> Enjoy a bit of silliness!

The peace talks with Harad were a disaster. 

Well, _not really,_ not where it mattered. But Faramir, rather than worrying about the borderlines of Gondor, was troubling himself with the festivities that took place right after the treaties had been signed. 

They were all in the Great Hall - the Haradrim, the Gondorians… Even a few people from Rohan had come, bringing gifts and wishes for a peaceful future. The Haradrim had brought a few gifts of their own, too, and Faramir was far from pleased. 

Among the fumes of scented candles, scented soap, scented _everything,_ for the people of Harad had turned out to be suspiciously attached to the prospect of things smelling _nicely,_ there were also half-naked dancers. _Scented,_ naturally. 

The steward gritted his teeth, reaching for his cup and observing the women - _girls,_ really, for they were no older than eighteen. They could not be, not with their bodies lean and smooth, skin like freshly picked peaches, hair flowing like the waters of Anduin, wild and dangerous, luring innocent men in and drowning them quickly. It was truly indecent - the way they moved, shaking their hips left and right, making various bells and coins at their belts jingle hypnotizingly. _Outrageous._

What was even worse - if Faramir could bring himself to look for worse things - King Elessar seemed to be entranced with those young ladies, staring at them intently, apparently forgetting the drink he was holding in his hand. His cup slipped out of the grasp of his fingers at one point, sending the wine flowing to the floor. The King of Harad glanced at the mess, then at the King of Gondor himself, nodding almost approvingly. 

_Faramir was furious._

How _dare_ they bring those scantily clad girls and how _dare_ they parade them in front of his king. Their ignorance was insolent, and it touched the steward to his very core. They did not only insult him, for they knew not about his evenings spent with Elessar, but, first and foremost, they insulted Aragorn, presenting the dancers like a lewd offering to a god long forgotten. And the King of Gondor just sat there, smiling stiffly, his eyes following every tiny move. Faramir could not blame him. The girls were beautiful, each one of them in their own way. 

_Especially the redhead._

She was a true masterpiece, Faramir thought, his gaze getting stuck on the audacious dance the girl performed, her surprisingly narrow hips shaking to the rhythm set by a band of Harad drummers. She was a bit slimmer in the waist than the rest of them, a little broader in the shoulders, and Faramir absentmindedly wondered whether she was a member of the Royal Guard in disguise. _She was certainly able to hold a sword with arms like those,_ the steward thought bitterly, his gaze slipping over the well-defined muscles. He chanced a glance at his king. 

Aragorn seemed entranced, his eyes staring into nothing, even as three barely dressed girls were writhing right at his feet. The steward wondered what he was thinking about - were his thoughts still on the dancers? Was he thinking about taking them to bed? Or maybe-

 _No._ Faramir shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Aragorn would never do that. Not only was he not keen on looking upon girls half his age - not to mention a fifth! - but he was far too noble to spend a night with someone and kick them out of his bed in the morning. Besides, he was the king, he could not cause a scandal. What they were doing together was shocking enough, and Faramir knew that it was about as far as Aragorn was willing to go. He would never just drag a girl into his bed for a quick shag, then leave her when Anor rose again. 

Faramir sighed, staring into his cup. The feast had been made at the king’s request, and they both had to be present. They had to sit there and endure this… well, _he_ had to, for Aragorn looked progressively more and more interested in the proceedings. The faraway look was gone now, his eyes once again following the red-haired girl, and the steward winced, imagining the reasons for that. 

He knew that Aragorn had always liked both men and women. _It does not matter, my heart loves whom it will,_ the king had told him once, all those months ago, when Faramir had asked him about his preferences. The question had not been so forward, of course, but the answer had brought them together on the same night. Aragorn had been lonely back then, and he had told Faramir as much. It turned out that his loneliness had had nothing to do with a lack of friends, for they were always within the riding distance. After an hour of painstakingly tender explanations, Aragorn had finally admitted that he was missing the romantic aspect of relationships. His Fair Lady had left, carried away across the Great Sea, and the king had nobody to spend his nights with, no-one to wake up to. He had muttered something about finding an unlikely lover, and Faramir had queried for more. 

The answer had been as surprising as it had been sweet and soon, he had been kissing his king, feeling himself falling in love anew. He had always loved the king - maybe since the day he had woken up in the House of Healing, maybe even before that. But this new feeling between them, familiar in the heat it caused, was as refreshing as it was welcome. They had blindly stumbled into the bed and let their bodies do the talking, while their mouths had busied themselves with one another. In the morning, with soft gazes and tender words, they had come to a conclusion - they wanted this. The both of them. 

And now they were here, Aragorn seated in his ornate throne, staring at the girls, and Faramir grumpily sipping his wine, scowling at the audacious dancers. 

When the song ended with an exotic arrangement of three lean bodies, complicated enough to make Faramir’s head hurt, the whole hall erupted with excited shouts and a loud applause. To his utter dismay, the steward noticed Aragorn clapping, too, looking somewhat dazed. Faramir frowned, gulping down the rest of his wine. He was ready to reach for the jug and pour himself another cup, hoping to drown his sorrows in the sweet drink, when the drummers started another piece of Harad music and the dancers prepared to begin writhing again. 

_Enough was really enough._

Faramir slammed his cup on the table, stood up and, muttering something about a headache, quickly excused himself. He sketched a rushed but deep bow in front of the two kings, minding his manners - the protocol had been ignored enough for that night, he did not want to ponder what the ancient kings would have thought about the happenings on this here feast. He could not stop the Haradrim from bestowing their gifts upon the king - not if the gifts were not dangerous, and Faramir was fairly sure Aragorn could handle a handful of unarmed girls if the need arose. But, as much as he could not interfere with protocols and old customs, he did not have to witness that. He had already seen enough for one evening.

Walking out of the hall, he did not look back over his shoulder for Elessar’s reaction.

-&-

By the time he emerged from his bath, Faramir had already forgotten what he had been angry about. Sure, the dancers and their slithering bodies were still stuck somewhere at the back of his mind, stubbornly not disappearing in the steam rising from the scalding water he had submerged himself in, but they were not important anymore. 

After walking out of the feast, the steward had gone back to his own chambers, opting not to cause any interested stares and unnecessary questions - there were too many people stumbling around the citadel as it was. It made it easy then to walk out of the bathroom and into his bedchamber, naked as the day he was born, feeling surprisingly refreshed. He slid between the cool sheets, shivering at the chill draft dancing in the room. It was getting colder with every day and soon, they would have to get out all the thicker blankets and furs that had been folded and tucked away in the closets. 

For now, though, a sheet and a blanket were enough, and Faramir stretched, yawning. He missed Aragorn, especially now, when he could feel the tiredness pulling his eyes shut. He knew the king had to sit through the rest of the feast, probably, and he hoped it would be finished soon. The chances that he would see him before tomorrow morning were slim at best, but even if they were to spend the night in separate beds, he’d still much rather see his king well-rested over their breakfast. 

-&-

Faramir woke with a start, glancing around his empty room. He did not know what roused him for a moment, his confused brain trying to piece together the detached and bleary images of his surroundings. Blinking furiously, dragging his gaze to the window only to see the pitch-black sky, Faramir shrugged, ready to lie down again. 

There was a knock on the door. 

He frowned, wondering who on Arda could be coming to him at this - doubtlessly ungodly - hour. And then the door opened a crack and a familiar voice filled the silent room.   
“Are you asleep?” Aragorn almost whispered, the dark shape of his head peeking inside.   
“No, come in,” Faramir said, loud enough to be heard. The king shuffled inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. He walked closer to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, his eyes following Faramir as the steward twisted to the side and lit the few candles he had on his bedside table. When their soft glow illuminated the room, Faramir let himself fall down on the mattress, looking up at his king. 

“Are you alright?” Aragorn asked, worry evident in his tone. “You left so early…” At that, Faramir laughed, the events of the evening filtering to his mind and filling it with incredulity.   
“Oh, I am fine! I merely did not wish to witness any more of those transgressions,” he explained, his voice deceptively light. Aragorn raised his eyebrows in confusion.   
“Transgressions? What do you speak of?”   
“I speak of the _dancers_ brought by the Harad King. You know, the ones who were doing their best to lure you into their arms for the better part of the evening… or should I say _between their legs?”_ Faramir said, shaking his head in disdain. 

He took a deep breath - he was not angry at Aragorn anymore, nor was he jealous right now. The king was with him, after all, and not with one of the half-naked girls. But, the performance had been lewd, and he was sure he had not been the only one feeling insulted by it. There had been other council members present, and some of them did not appreciate modern customs even on their best days. Faramir was not jealous, he was _offended._

Aragorn stared at him, his eyes widening, until something came together in his mind. He got up suddenly, turned around and started pacing the length of the room, his hands coming up to rub tiredly at his face.   
“By Eru! Is that what has been sitting on your mind? Those _girls?”_ He asked, his voice turning unbelieving. “You thought that I… Gods, Faramir!” Elessar groaned, shaking his head. Faramir got up, too, grabbing the sheet and wrapping it tightly around his hips in an attempt at modesty.   
“What was I supposed to think? You _did_ look like you were enjoying yourself,” the steward retorted, standing a foot away from him, glaring at Aragorn’s back.   
“That’s what I attempted to do,” the king muttered, glancing at him over his shoulder.   
“Could you please explain that to me?” Faramir asked, reminding himself to be calm. He was not jealous anymore, and the honor of Gondor he seemed to bristle so badly about was not worth it to have an argument with the most important man in his life. 

With a sigh that sounded way too weary for someone who had just spent his whole evening watching attractive girls, Aragorn turned around, facing his steward. Faramir stood there, belatedly realizing his hands were still gripping the sheet wrapped around his hips. With a decisive move, he tied two corners of it into a knot, making sure the material would not fall down.   
“Well?” He asked, daring to look expectantly at his king. Aragorn shook his head distractedly, his gaze lingering on Faramir’s half-naked form.   
“I did not want to hurt you, meleth. Those girls… their dance was very inspiring, that is all,” Aragorn explained. His eyes were stuck to his steward’s body, helplessly following the play of shadows on his chest. Faramir frowned.   
“Inspiring?” He asked, a note of disbelief clear in the word. 

Elessar sighed again, then moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and leaning forward, until he could prop his elbows on his knees. He looked up at his steward, eyes shining in the half-darkness surrounding them.   
“Inspiring how?” Faramir queried, coming closer. There was something magical in Aragorn’s gaze, heat simmering slowly but surely, bringing forth images of the nights spent together between damp and torn sheets.   
“Did you notice the red-haired one?” The king asked, his voice low. Faramir raised an eyebrow at him.   
“I believe half of Gondor might have noticed her.”   
_“Him,”_ Aragorn corrected, the corners of his mouth quirking up in evident amusement. 

“What?” Faramir stared at him, uncomprehending, his mouth going slack in confusion.   
“I may be a bit rusty on anatomy, my dear steward, but I am almost sure that the fine lady we have seen dancing this evening was, in fact, a man,” Aragorn explained patiently. “During my childhood in Imladris I have learned the fine art of drawing, and I do believe I can recognize a man when I look at one. Our bodies, even when trained to resemble a woman, are still distinctly different in certain-”   
“You mean to tell me,” Faramir interrupted, raising one hand apologetically for such an abrupt halt he brought to Aragorn’s speech, “that you have spent the whole evening watching a _man_ dancing lewdly at your feet?”   
“I spent the whole evening imagining _you!”_ The king retorted, staring up at him, his gaze almost challenging. 

Faramir blinked, then blinked again, mind busy tearing apart Elessar’s words. He pieced them together, then turned them around in his head, still not certain as to their meaning.   
“You mean…”   
“Oh Faramir!” Aragorn sighed, threading his fingers through his hair, a small chuckle escaping him. “When I saw the dancers I knew that they were a gift. I was well aware, as were you, that we had to sit through and at least pretend we were enjoying ourselves.”   
“You _were_ enjoying yourself, my king,” Faramir reminded him pointedly, clearing his throat.   
“That was only because I was thinking about _you._ When I saw that redhead I knew that he was a man,” Aragorn went on, shaking his head with an incredulous little laugh. “I do believe he may be the king’s bedmate, too.” 

Faramir inhaled so sharply he actually choked on his own saliva.   
“What? Surely one would think a Royal Guard in disguise!”   
“No, nothing of the sort,” Elessar said with a rueful smile. “He was too well trained in dancing for that. The girl dressed in blue was one of the guards. Her skirt was fixed to her legs with those bands she wore. It was long enough to comfortably hide a dagger underneath, in case a threat to her king presented itself,” he explained, seeing Faramir’s shocked expression. The steward just stood there, looking at him.   
“So the King of Harad has brought with himself not only the girls, one of which might have been armed, but also his _lover?”_ Faramir asked weakly. It was way too late to have this sort of discussion, and while being barely dressed. “What on Arda for?”   
“For entertainment? To check my preferences? You know that such small details are sometimes useful when it comes to diplomacy. But, once I noticed who was dancing in front of me, I could not help but think about _you.”_   
“Me?” Faramir asked quietly, still not sure as to the meaning of Aragorn’s words. 

The king nodded, his smile becoming dreamy, and just like that, his steward realized that all the anger he had felt had left him. How could he stand there, fuming, when Aragorn was sitting right in front of him, _on his bed,_ with that blissful smile upon his lips?   
“I could not help but picture you in their place,” the king mused. “The chest-piece would be too much, I think, but I would not say no to you wearing the bottom part of the outfit,” he said softly, his voice almost too quiet to be heard.   
“Me? In a _skirt?”_ The steward smirked, suddenly feeling amused. Aragorn shook his head quickly.   
“No, not a full skirt… more of a loincloth? Something long and flowing,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to Faramir’s hips, still wrapped tightly in the sheet, before he tore his eyes away and swallowed heavily. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to make for Faramir, reach out and grab his hips, mold his hands to their shape. 

“But, my king, I cannot dance half as well as they can!” The steward noted, making a halfhearted sway with his hips, something that undoubtedly came out stiff and jagged. Aragorn licked his lips, his eyes glued to Faramir’s body, and the younger man could not help but repeat the movement. An idea came to him - a concept so salacious it brought a truly mad blush to his cheeks. 

It was easy to see that Aragorn enjoyed even that small display, unpracticed as it was. He was sitting there, still in his regal outfit, his eyes following every tiny shift of Faramir’s muscles. When the steward took a step closer, placing himself within easy reach of him, Aragorn’s breath hitched. One of his hands came up slowly, the very fingertips touching the white sheet almost reverently, sliding along the edge of the fabric. The king raised his gaze up slowly, almost lazily, meeting Faramir’s eyes over the expanse of his half-naked body. There was a fire in that stare, an all-consuming heat that threatened to eat him alive. 

As with everything concerning Elessar, _Faramir would not be opposed._

He took another step, bringing his feet between Aragorn’s somewhat splayed legs, then bent down and kissed the king quickly. It was not as languid as their other kisses had been, barely a chaste press of lips, an opening.   
“Move back,” Faramir whispered, breaking apart, leaning away again. He waited, a curious sort of warmth spreading through his limbs, as Aragorn sat there dazed for a moment longer, before he started to awkwardly climb backwards across the bed. When his back hit the headboard, he stopped, letting himself rest against the soft pillows strewn around. He grabbed one and tucked it behind his head, his eyes never leaving the steward. Faramir smirked, then moved forward, placing his knees on the mattress. 

His walk required him to hike up the sheet a bit, lest he get tangled in it. He grabbed it distractedly with his left hand, lifted it up just a little, inadvertently exposing his left leg that slipped through the split in the soft fabric. Aragorn’s eyes immediately wandered there, following the curve of his thigh all the way from the knee to the hip. Faramir smiled, climbing higher, placing his legs astride his king. Aragorn, looking almost hypnotized, raised one of his hands and spread his fingers on the expanse of the bare skin right above his knee, sliding them under the sheet, causing a shiver to rake Faramir’s frame. Seemingly pleased with the reaction - or just too entranced to pace himself - Aragorn moved his arm, his rough palm sliding up, until it was as close to Faramir’s groin as it could without actually touching. 

This is where the steward grabbed the wayward hand, halting his king.   
“If you go on,” the younger man panted softly, trying to keep his voice level, “this opportunity will be completely wasted.” Aragorn looked up at him sharply, his eyes burning.   
“If you wish me to keep my hands away from you,” he said, his voice surprisingly raspy, “you will have to tie them up.” 

Now, Faramir was not one to waste an opportunity when it presented itself. As a rule, he would never even suggest something as scandalous as tying one’s king up… but Aragorn did not look like he was speaking in jest, and his fingers were still insistently grazing the soft flesh on the inside of Faramir’s thigh, and the steward knew that not much more of that slow caress and he’d forget all about his intent and just jump his king there and then. He glanced around quickly, scanning his surroundings until his eyes fell on a sash he had taken out of his bathrobe a few hours earlier. He picked it up off the side of his bed, where it had been resting after he had declared it an inconvenience. It was soft, silky-smooth, and durable enough to hold a man captive when used in the right way. 

With a grin, Faramir bent forward, pressing his mouth to Aragorn’s, licking quickly between his lips just to draw forth a small moan of approval. While their tongues were busy, Faramir skimmed his palms down his king’s shoulders, following the well-defined muscles, until the arms narrowed into two strong wrists. A _swordsman’s hands,_ precision and toughness welded into a piece of worn-down beauty, so dear to Faramir, so sought for in the middle of the night, as they slid around him and pressed him securely to that firm body. 

He grabbed those hands and brought them up, wrapping the sash around the wrists, securing them quickly to the headboard. The knot was nowhere near sturdy enough to keep a grown man down, and Faramir was sure that Aragorn knew that. The king glanced up at his tied hands, before a slow, lascivious smile grew on his face. He tugged at the bonds a few times, just for show, just to see if Faramir had done enough to pretend it was a durable knot. When it held, even tightening a bit with his movements, Aragorn tore his eyes away and focused back on his steward, letting his gaze slip all the way from his head to his hips, then back again. Faramir shivered, shuffling a bit closer, a bit higher up. 

The change in position placed him directly above Aragorn’s groin, and Faramir could not help but press his hips down, rocking them forward, just to tease a little. The king groaned, his whole body arching up, bucking against Faramir’s weight. It brought him nowhere, and he fell back down on the bed, pinned to the soft mattress by his steward. Faramir grinned, then rose on his knees again. He tried to remember the tune the girls had been dancing to, but it was all gibberish in his brain by now, not to mention that it was impossible to focus on anything but the feeling of Aragorn’s arousal, straining against his royal robes. 

“Faramir…” the king sighed, licking his lips, his eyes boring into the younger man. Faramir shook his head to clear it, then, deciding to forego any rhythm and to just flow with the motion, he started to sway his hips slowly. From left to right, then back again, adding a small pause here or there. With every second, the rocking became easier, almost as if his body was learning how to do it on the spot, using the newfound knowledge to propel the progress forward. Aragorn was watching him intently, eyes shifting between Faramir’s hips and his face, and the steward did not even try to hide the excited look that blossomed on his own features. 

Inspired by the images of the feast still clinging to his brain, Faramir bowed back a little, letting his head drop, leaning as far away as he dared, lest he lose his balance. There was a moan coming from Aragorn, a rugged, gruffy thing that reverberated all the way through their bodies. Faramir smiled, straightening again, somehow managing to make it look more seductive than ridiculous. His king definitely liked that, if the hardness inside his velvet breeches was anything to judge by. Aragorn arched up against him once more, his whole body straining, hands tugging reflexively at the bonds. 

“I… might have erred… in my assessment earlier,” he gasped out, his eyes aflame. Faramir dove down to capture his king’s lips, practically melting when Aragorn kissed him back with hunger fitting a starving man. It did not last long - Faramir did not dare to allow it. They were both too heated by the evening and Faramir’s improvised dance, and he did not wish to make them spend themselves with minimal contact like reckless teenage boys. High King Elessar was a thing to behold and cherish, and Faramir was intent on doing just that. 

Breaking the kiss, stretching his hand to the side where a small jar filled with oil rested, Faramir grabbed it and straightened again. He opened it hurriedly, breathing in the smell of lavender, dipping his fingers inside. Aragorn watched him keenly, his gaze stuck to the glistening digits until they disappeared behind his steward’s back. It took him a bit of strategic arranging, but Faramir finally managed to push the sheet aside without untying it. When he slipped the first finger inside, eager to prepare himself as quickly as possible, afraid he would burn alive from the raw _want_ that was crashing through him in waves, the reaction must have shown on his face. Aragorn was staring attentively at him, his eyes dark, and his whole body jerked at the precise moment Faramir’s finger breached the tight muscle, almost as if he was the one who was entered. 

The preparation didn’t take long, for which Aragorn was glad. His lover was a vision like this, the embodiment of one of the Valar, but which one the king did not know, could not focus enough to remember. Faramir’s hips shifted over his lap, the white sheet dragging across his own robes, creating a rustle not unlike leaves falling during late autumn. Thankfully, the sweet torture did not last, and soon, Faramir was rising on his knees, unlacing Aragorn’s clothes with maddening precision and wrapping his hand around his king’s flesh. 

“By Eru! Faramir…” Aragorn rasped, arching off the bed, tugging at his bonds yet again. To his surprise, they held, keeping him trapped while his lover carefully lowered himself and took him in. The sweet drag of flesh on flesh was exquisite, the heat more than he could bear, and soon, Aragorn was moaning with abandon, delighted noises escaping him with each and every of Faramir’s movements. It was only when Faramir bent down and kissed him that he went quiet, biting on Faramir’s tongue when pleasure overwhelmed him. 

It was over almost too soon, but neither man complained, panting into each other’s mouths as they found their release, with Faramir’s head falling back and his hand working furiously between them. Aragorn wished he could remember that moment forever, wished for unfailable memory to commit it to. And then another moment, way sweeter and more treasurable, as Faramir fell forward and braced himself over Aragorn with one hand, the other undoing the bonds quickly, albeit shakily. There were still tremors running through him when Aragorn wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled him down, gentle fingers pushing away Faramir’s fiery mane so that he could kiss him softly. 

“I’d say… this was far better than what I imagined during those dances…” The king murmured, grinning when Faramir chuckled and slid off his lap, landing boneless on the spot right next to him.  
“I am glad… I think the sheet is ruined.” But there was no remorse in the steward’s tone, and he did not seem bothered in the least when he used the soiled material to clean them both up a little. He then tossed it to the side and curled up against Aragorn’s side, prompting the king to cover them both with a blanket that got somehow pushed to the side of the bed. 

Warm and comfortable, with Faramir curled up in his arms, Aragorn smiled happily. He was tired, the politics had been dreadful, but at least something good had come out of this evening. He should speak to the King of Harad in the morning, thank him for his gifts and ask him about their clothes… After all, a nice loincloth would not be bad and could probably save their sheets from being ruined again. 

“Don’t you dare to bring it up with the King,” Faramir’s sleepy voice reached him, and Aragorn laughed.   
“How did you know?”   
“I know _you,_ and I can see when you enjoy something. If you want to do it again, employ some of our local tailors! And in utter secrecy!” Faramir stated, his tone grave.   
“Your wish is my command!” Aragorn answered, laughing, his arms tightening around his steward. He already had a design in mind, one with jewels and golden thread. He would have to talk to Ioreth and ask her about tailors…


End file.
